Pathway to Japanese Literature

From Venice

I had thought buying beans for temple pigeons was unique to Japan, but here before San Marco Temple, they were doing the same thing.
However, instead of beans, they were selling corn packed in slender conical paper bags.

On the main street, there was a man boiling a pot and selling boiled octopus.

Venice was decaying and dirty, but it decayed beautifully—so much so that even its peeled walls and laundry hung from windows all exhibited indescribably lovely, muted hues.
Despite being the season of frost-withered vegetation, the verdant green of evergreen trees and the sapphire-like hue of the water were beautifully reflected in the yellows, reds, and browns of the weathered houses.

The gondolas were charming, and even the poor women appeared beautiful.

(January 1910, *The Tokyo Asahi Shimbun*)

From Rome

Having come to Rome, I wandered among the endless ruins.

Today, I left the city and went from Lake Albano toward Rocca di Papa to see the traces of an ancient volcano. On every mountainside, olive fruits had ripened, and beneath them, flocks of sheep grazed. On the mountain path, I encountered a woman walking toward me, knitting socks as she went, with a bundle of dead branches and a folded umbrella balanced atop her head like the women of Ōhara. There were those who had long-horned oxen pull lumber carts, and those who loaded charcoal bales onto donkeys. There were mandarin orange trees and bamboo. Beside the women with dark eyes and hair gathered around a puddle doing laundry, chickens flocked playfully, and a pig cried by the roadside. I saw part of the Vatican as well, but the local specialties there seemed to consist entirely of delicious things.

(February 1910, *The Tokyo Asahi Shimbun*)

From Berlin (1)

At the time, they were performing a play called *Typhoon* at the Berliner Theater there.
The author was Hungarian, and it was said that the play centered around Japanese exchange students.
It was reported to be immensely popular.
The protagonist’s Japanese name was given as Dr. Takelamo Nitobe—this “Takelamo” alone sufficed to make me lose any inclination to attend.
Though people claimed it skillfully captured Japanese characteristics and even highlighted their virtues, deterred by “Takelamo,” I never went to see it.

(April 1910, *The Tokyo Asahi Shimbun*)

From Berlin (2)

During this trip, there were many days of bad weather, and particularly in Switzerland, the Alpine snow remained hidden by rain and fog, making it rather uneventful. Even so, the day I went to see the Mont Blanc glacier was clear and quite enjoyable. I walked around with a thermometer hung at my side, measuring the temperature as I went. A guide carrying a pickaxe-like staff and a rope slung over his shoulder asked in English, "Need a guide?" When I asked, "Do you speak English?" he replied, "No." As a precaution against slipping, I put socks over my boots and crossed the glacier alone. It felt good. On the other side of the glacier lay a rugged path called Möve Pass, where alpine plants bloomed in clusters between the mountains, and here and there waterfalls cascaded. While descending into the valley from there, as I passed a small house called something like Tavan, someone came running up from behind and asked, "Are you Japanese?" When I said yes, he told me, "I’m an Englishman named Weston—spent eight years in Japan climbing every mountain there, scaled Fuji six times." His wife was knitting socks in the meadow before the inn. From there, I descended to the valley floor and walked to Chamonix village. In pastures along the path, cows with bells around their necks grazed freely, their chimes sounding remarkably melodic. The guard’s children and an old woman looked truly picturesque and delightful. I saw autumn flowers like those found in Japan blooming by a railway crossing hut and flowers offered at a roadside Marian shrine. As I entered Chamonix town, dusk was already falling—the crimson sunset staining Buisson Glacier’s peak looked truly splendid. The village streets were lined with shops displaying local specialties like agate carvings and ox-horn crafts, while a movie theater drew crowds with its player piano. A woman in gaudy clothes, likely from Paris, strolled past.

After returning from Chamonix to Geneva, I visited the elderly scholar Mr. Sarasan in the suburbs.
He welcomed me joyfully and took me around the entire town in his carriage.
After being invited to lunch, I walked around his extensive property.
I was told that his wife had translated our papers into French and published them in an academic journal here.
This place was already near the French border; from the mansion’s veranda, I could see the border forest past the pastureland and also glimpse what was said to be Voltaire’s former residence.
In a velvety meadow stood scattered cypress trees over two hundred years old and chestnut trees more than a century old, with a winding path meandering between them.
In a corner of the estate stood a well that blew out and sucked in air from underground, where he explained its mechanism to me.
He described how when low-pressure systems approached, eruptions grew vigorous enough to send up objects like straw hats.
Then we walked around viewing tenant farmers’ houses, cow sheds, pigsties, and even manure piles.
We greeted each tenant farmer with a “Hallo” and exchanged brief words with them.
It was said that the farmhouses’ construction methods remained unchanged since ancient times.

From the mansion’s entrance to its main door stretched a row of oak trees. On both sides lay apple orchards where the fruits had ripened red. In the study stood several marble busts said to have been bought in Rome. Mr. Sarasan stroked each head and caressed every face as he displayed them. Among them was a bust of a boy with an oversized head, his features remarkably handsome. It was said that Mr. Sarasan’s eldest daughter, when still a child, had become utterly smitten with this statue—she would clamber onto her father’s chair to plant kisses on its stony lips. An oil painting capturing this scene hung in the parlor.

It was a day of fog and light rain, truly quiet.

I toured around Bern, Zurich, Lucerne, and other places from Geneva.
In Lucerne, there was a museum called the Museum of War and Peace, where the Russo-Japanese War section displayed many garish woodblock prints, so I felt somewhat repelled.

Pastures spread across every valley and slope, apples were ripening, and I thought it a beautiful country.

Then I visited Strasbourg and proceeded to Nuremberg.
I felt as though I were seeing medieval Germany, and found it quite fascinating.
When I saw the prison beneath the city hall, a young girl guided me with a lamp.
The guide explained that prisoners were laid on bare plank beds without even straw and received neither bread nor water.
The elderly man in a Tyrolean hat who had come along asked various questions, but since the young guide knew nothing in detail, he could not get satisfactory answers.
“If we proceed through the underground corridor for fifteen minutes, there is a deep well. Would you like to go see it?” she asked.
However, the elderly man’s wife voiced her disapproval, and in the end, they turned back without seeing it.
I also saw the former residence of Painter Dürer, though the admission tickets there were designed as lottery-style tickets.
In a corner of the famous old castle stood a tower displaying torture devices from ages past.
A petite, pale-faced woman walked around giving explanations.
When a student-like man who had been walking around viewing the exhibits with me asked the guide maliciously, “Don’t you feel anything after repeating such hair-raising tales day in and day out like you do?” the woman merely responded with a bitter smile.
I bought her a few picture postcards as a sort of compensation.
And with that, I gave her a white copper coin and made my escape.
I stayed four days in Munich.
At the Pinakothek’s galleries, I viewed Murillo, Dürer, Böcklin, and others to my heart’s content.

Then, after visiting Dresden and Jena, I stayed in Weimar for about two hours and saw the houses of Goethe and Schiller.
It is said that just as Goethe had requested garden soil to be brought in and placed in a dish for analysis before his death, he suddenly took ill—the dish of soil remains on the high bookshelf beneath his study window to this day.
He was carried into the adjacent bedroom but could not lie down on the bed, remaining slumped in an armchair instead.
On the stand beside the chair sit a medicine bottle, teapot, and teacup exactly as they did during his time.
Both the study desk and bedroom struck me as unexpectedly modest.
Though various relics are displayed in the second-floor rooms, I found most compelling the physical instruments and specimens Goethe used in his experiments.
Schiller’s house appeared not so much modest as nearly impoverished.
While several splendid uniformed guards attended Goethe’s residence, only a single hunchbacked woman kept watch at Schiller’s.
Beyond the backyard window lay another house where a craftsman seemed to be working on something.
At the corner where Schiller Town ends stands a large modern café; through its glass windows, twentieth-century men and women curiously observed me—an odd-looking passerby.
Fallen leaves carpeted streets and crossroads; vines blood-red in hue clung to aged brick walls while warm sunlight glinted off palace guards’ helmets.

I was leaving Berlin in about ten days and going to Göttingen.

(October 1910, Tokyo Asahi Shimbun)

From Göttingen

I spent last year’s Christmas on my travels.
In Vienna, wandering the streets late at night and seeing Tannenbaum being sold, I thought them just like kadomatsu; in Venice, on the evening of the twenty-fifth, I felt desolate watching throngs of people trudging aimlessly through the narrow, dimly lit town—but this year, here in the countryside, I experienced a Christmas as pure as the countryside itself.
On the evening of the 22nd, I was invited by the landlady to attend a Christmas service at a Catholic kindergarten, so I went to see it.
I went with the landlady, her daughter, some housekeeping trainees who had come to help including Miss Stuber—four of us in total.
In a narrow room stood toy-like small low desks and chairs arranged in rows, swarming with children.
All looked poor among them, many suffering from colds—their incessant pitiable coughing made things clamorous.
Two plump nuns in white hoods and black robes stood nearby supervising.
Outside the open door at the room’s rear crowded local poor people talking noisily.
Among children seated at desks were some stretching up to gaze curiously at the crowd behind them.
Then a Sister stood up briskly patting their heads to make them face forward.
Presently one child spotted its mother’s face in the crowd and suddenly began crying from longing.
The Sister picked up the child and took it to its mother’s side before finally coaxing it back to its seat—though it still turned around sullen-faced.
Among the many children were some yawning,
some nodding off sleepily.
In a corner of the hall stood a large Christmas tree; when the Sister began lighting candles all turned to look.
Underneath lay a doll of the Christ child sleeping in a small shrine.
Soon emerged two child angels with gauze wings on their backs and golden crowns on their heads standing beside the Christ child.
One angel coughed terribly—its wings trembling painfully—yet endured trying to keep composure,
gazing curiously at my face with large adorable eyes all the while.
Before long an old monk came out and began his address.

Still wearing a rather unimpressive overcoat, he looked equally at the children and guests over his glasses and spoke at length in a nasal voice. He spoke about the origins of Weihnachten among other things, but the children’s coughing continued incessantly, making a racket, while those not coughing appeared thoroughly bored. There was also an address expressing regret that Sister So-and-so—who had singlehandedly sewn nearly all the doll clothes meant as gifts for the children that day—was absent due to illness. When this speech ended, the supervising nun led the children in a hymn. Then older children took turns stepping up to the front platform to recite from memory, while the nun anxiously murmured along in a small voice from below. Next, Weihnachtsmann came out carrying a sack and made everyone laugh with his antics, after which the ceremony concluded and all guests filed into another room to view the gifts displayed for the children. Indeed, I thought this must be what delights children. Once the ceremony ended, the poor who had been waiting outside all pushed in at once to receive alms, creating such a crush that we barely managed to extricate ourselves.

About a week before Christmas, a year-end market had been set up in the square before the city hall, with stalls lining up to sell cheap toys and penny sweets—yet whenever I went to look, business seemed poor with scarcely any customers about.
The elderly men and women tending stalls were puffing on long kiseru pipes or knitting.
As I browsed idly, some called out: “Doctor sir! How about a Christmas gift?”
When I went shopping at town shops, many asked things like: “Do you celebrate Weihnachten in your homeland too?”

On the first day of Christmas, the landlady asked if I could help decorate the Tannenbaum, so I assisted her. There was a box of very old sweets tied with a yellow ribbon, and saying these should be hung too, we hung them on the fir tree along with the other decorations. It was said these were sweets the grandmother had bought fourteen years ago. Miss Stark, the actress staying at the same lodging, also came down from the third floor wearing an apron and helped. A ladder was needed to hang them on the highest branch. I said it was dangerous, but she wouldn’t listen, and Miss Stark hung them. It was said that the landlady’s son would return on the eleven o’clock train that night. Both this son and the daughter were said to be the landlady’s stepchildren. The son worked at an electric factory in Eberfeld, and since he was returning home for Christmas after a long absence, the younger sister had been knitting a necktie as a gift all this while. She complained that it still wasn’t finished. Due to circumstances, we lit the Baum after dinner. It was beautiful. Along one side of the room, desks were arranged with everyone’s gifts displayed. The two maids too each received bolts of cloth and were delighted. It seemed slightly strange to me that a parent and child would exchange gifts and kiss each other while saying “Mutter” and “Helene.” The landlady sat down at the piano, and everyone sang Weihnachten songs. I heard it was supposed to snow, but that evening brought a storm-like downpour, making for dreadful weather. Thinking I wanted to take a photo of the Baum as a memento, I went into town to buy magnesium powder; there, in house windows, Christmas tree lights glowed while music played here and there, making everything look cheerful. The son returned past eleven, but since I had already gone back to my room and was reading a newspaper in bed, I did not meet him that night. Until late into the night, low voices could be heard in the neighboring room.

The son left three days later after dinner, and at that dinner, the landlady made sandwiches and wrapped them in newspaper.
Because the train was arriving at midnight, she was selecting the thickest slice of bread.
After the meal was finished and there was still considerable time before the train’s departure, the son sat down at the piano and played Weihnachten songs.
The landlady and her son were constantly talking about various things, but there was absolutely no conversation between the siblings.
Even so, I heard the necktie had finally been completed.

Last night was Sylvesterabend, so we lit candles on the Baum again.
And after dinner, we drank warm punch and nibbled on sweets.
The topic came up about how strange it was that the grapes displayed on the dining room shelf were disappearing little by little each day.
Today, they said it had become only four and went out of their way to show me.
I also heard a story about a housewife who had put emetics in the sweets to punish a maid for stealing food.
Miss Stark came late due to rehearsal.
She was always going on about how busy she was.
It seemed that because she performed different plays every day at the country theater, the script rehearsals kept her quite busy.
One day, when I stayed in my room instead of going out at my usual time, I was a bit startled when a rehearsal began in the neighboring dining room.
I later heard it was Lessing’s *Minna von Barnhelm* they had been rehearsing.

At midnight on New Year’s Eve, I went out to send New Year’s cards to Japan.
In the town’s intersection, two or three children were throwing snow at passersby.
When I reached the city hall area, a dark square swarmed with people; from second- and third-floor windows of houses—open despite the cold—faces peered down.
The city hall clock struck twelve just as the neighboring Johann Church’s bell began tolling.
The crowd roared “Prosit Neujahr! Prosit Neujahr!” in unison.
They lit firecrackers and flung them into the throng.
Red and blue fireballs arced through the air.
Latecomers shouted “Prosit Neujahr” from alleyways.
Women tiptoed across snow half-slush while youths marched singing in groups.
The policeman smiled, occasionally echoing “Prosit.”
Students cornered the mailman—beer breath and cigar smoke fogging his face—badgering him: “Bring us loads of registered mail this year too!”
As they roughhoused and embraced, cigars dropped into mud only to be retrieved and relit.
At the Platz’s edge stood a man selling punch from a copper kettle.
Temple bells clanged for fifteen minutes.
Even returning through desolate streets, faces watched from windows.
When I tried retiring, someone below my window bellowed “Prosit Neujahr!”—answered by “Prosit! Prosit!” from across the way.

While I was writing, the day grew dark.
There was not a single trace of New Year’s Day.
Starting that day, Mr. Meyer, the assistant judge, took up lodging in the neighboring vacant room.
Mr. Berner from the law department and Mr. Defregger from the science department, among others, were currently back in their hometowns, so it was very quiet.

Even though I wrote at length, it became utterly uninteresting.

(February 1911, *Tokyo Asahi Shimbun*)

From Paris (1)

My lodgings were located in a somewhat tucked-away backstreet near the Opera. After walking two or three blocks, I would reach the Boulevard des Italiens. I usually came out there every morning and bought a newspaper at the corner. On the day I first visited Notre-Dame, I took a horse-drawn omnibus from there and headed straight to Bastille Crossing. The much-talked-about prison was nowhere to be found—only the towering July Monument loomed over the area. At its summit stood the Goddess of Liberty clutching broken chains and a torch. It was a day of fierce winds; tattered clouds raced across the sky until this divine figure itself seemed to gallop through the heavens when I gazed upward. In the square below, dust and scraps of paper swirled in eddies.

Facing the square stood a restaurant called *Au Canon*, its eaves bearing a signboard of a cannon. From there, I rode the upper deck of a horse-drawn carriage to Hôtel de Ville. On one side of the street, small carts loaded with greengrocery items were lined up. The vendors were mostly old women wearing black hoods and black shawls. I disembarked from the carriage in front of City Hall and swam my way through the swirling wind to Notre-Dame. Wherever you found a renowned temple, they all gave the impression of having been first thoroughly smoked with soot and then swiftly scrubbed down with a bamboo broom—and this temple was no exception. I did not find it particularly splendid compared to other famous temples, but the bell towers rising opposite each other on both sides imparted a somewhat unusual impression. Upon passing through the entrance—and not just there—everything turned pitch dark for a moment. From beneath my feet, a sharp voice suddenly called out, “Priez les pauvres!” A nun in a pure white, large headdress was holding out a bag. Silver coins were glinting from the bottom of the bag. The worshippers entering would all dip their fingertips into the hand-water basins at the entrance walls or pillars, bring them to their foreheads, lower them to their chests, then draw a cross from their left breast to their right breast. Candles were lit before the Madonna and Christ statues flanking the hall, with two or three people each kneeling in prayer before them. The old woman selling candles stared intently at me. Standing in the center of the hall and looking up at the sunlight streaming through the high stained-glass windows still brought a pleasant feeling. Since it was afternoon, there was no service. However, from time to time, the organ’s low hum would resound and fade away. Beneath the pillars of the right-side corridor stood a Madonna statue, under which were hung framed prayer phrases printed via letterpress here and there. It stated that if one performed this prayer there, the archbishop would grant a hundred days’ indulgence. It read something like: “Prostrate before the age-old image, I pray through the holy name of Notre-Dame… O Mother of my God…”

There were phrases stating that for centuries our ancestors here before this statue had experienced Paris’s joys and sorrows just as they had. A young woman stood before the statue, her face veiled in black gauze and holding a long candle in her hand. Leaning against the railing, she knelt down and remained motionless. Her beautiful shoulders shuddered intermittently, and the black bird feathers on her hat seemed to quiver. Beside the Madonna stood a plaster statue of Jandarc. A notice had been posted soliciting donations to complete its finishing touches. In the recessed areas of the corridor were several confessionals where priests heard confessions. Two years prior, when I first witnessed this practice at an Italian temple and felt repulsed, I had come to despise these mechanisms—and every time I saw them now, I found myself loathing the priests yet feeling tenderness toward the believers. Beside the door of the inner corridor hung a notice reading, “Those wishing to view the treasure repository are kindly requested to await the attendant here.” In front of it stood two monks engaged in conversation.

When I exited the gate, a dry wind was blowing fiercely outside. Turning right around the front of the hall, I found stairs leading up to the tower. I climbed the dimly lit, narrow spiral staircase. The walls were entirely covered with scribbles, which mostly appeared to be visitors' names. Having ascended to the top, I emerged onto the middle-level corridor. Though slightly misty, the view stretched all the way from Saint-Denis to Poissy. The door beneath the bell tower opened, and a woman peered out. "Are you going up the tower?" she asked, opening the entrance door.

“When you come back down, knock here,” she said, demonstrating with thudding knocks on the door before shutting me inside the tower.
I felt my way up the pitch-dark staircase and emerged at the top.
The wind was so fierce that I couldn’t keep my hat on.
When I took it off, gusts whipped through my hair wildly.
Finally unfolding Bédeka’s map, I surveyed all of Paris below.
The weathered stone at the tower’s peak lay blanketed with fossilized seashells.
Though the temple’s history and Paris’s own intrigued me, these ancient shells’ story proved equally captivating.
Both the galvanized roof and stones bore names and dates carved densely across their surfaces.
After descending, I pounded on the door repeatedly, but no one came despite my waiting.
I kicked it sharply with my shoe instead.
At last came the sound of bolts sliding open—someone had finally heard me.
As another visitor passed by to ascend, the attendant repeated her instructions before locking them in from outside too.
“Observe the Sebastopol Bell,” declared the guide brusquely, leading me toward the opposite bell tower first.
His black cowl and shawl framed features made gaunter still by threadbare robes fraying at every hemline edge behind him like torn banners left forgotten upon some battlefield long past its glory days...
From balustrades above us now loomed grotesque stone figures peering eternally downward over city streets they’d watched for centuries unblinkingly—their monstrous silhouettes stark against clouded skies beyond where sunlight struggled weakly through haze layers thickening evermore as afternoon wore onward relentlessly toward dusk...

“Please look at this creature.”
“Penseur. He spends the whole year like this, propping his cheek and thinking,” said the guide.
We returned again to the bell tower.
“On the left is what we call the Sebastopol Bell brought from Crimea,” he explained, “and on the right is our Bourdon here—it weighs several tons, with a clapper of such-and-such weight inside.”
He showed me the mechanism for swinging the bell.
Taking an iron rod that lay nearby, he gave it a light clang.
“They say this bell isn’t truly rung except on special feast days,” he added.
When I asked whether Victor Hugo’s Greek-letter graffiti—the one he used in his novel—still existed, the guide replied, “It’s long gone now.”
“You know about Quasimodo’s story too, sir,” he said with his bluish face breaking into a laugh.

When I returned to the original entrance, the man who had earlier gone up the tower was again thudding from inside, just like me.
He said “Excuse me,” opened it for him, and took him to show the bells again.

I shall report again next time.

Today being Carnival’s Mardi-gras, I imagined it would be bustling.

(March 1911, Tokyo Asahi Shimbun)

From Paris (2)

The other day, I visited what they call the Victor Hugo Museum here.
It was the house where Victor Hugo had lived, displaying relics and other items for public viewing.
There were many paintings he had created himself, and I found them remarkably skillful.
There were also works by various artists depicting scenes from his writings.
In *Les Misérables*, there is a scene where Fantine gets struck on the shoulder by a rough man hurling a snowball in the street.
This was apparently an incident Victor Hugo had actually witnessed.
The guide was explaining something to a man who appeared British, dressed in a chartreuse suit.
It struck me as curious how frequently I encountered this type of man wearing chartreuse suits and matching soft hats in ordinary places.
I had met such men aboard Norwegian ships and even at Mount Vesuvius.
They all spoke with that peculiar rolled-R accent, uttering phrases like “vell” and such.
On the stairway wall, before a framed printed notice, three short men with hunched shoulders stood reading aloud while discussing something.
These indeed turned out to be Germans.
The way they meticulously parsed every line of fine print struck me as quintessentially German.
Though there were many fascinating exhibits, having rushed through them left me with only fragmented impressions.
I would like to revisit the museum properly if time permits.

Today (March 23rd) was Mikareem festival day, I heard.
Since they were electing the most beautiful laundress in Paris as queen and holding a grand procession, I went out to the nearby avenue in the afternoon to see it.
Along every sidewalk, vendors sold paper bags filled with confetti alongside masks, paper dusters, and flutes that mimicked chicken calls.
Toys that wobbled and stretched like elephant trunks when blown into were also being sold.
The streets teemed with crowds while numerous police officers stood vigilantly on guard.
The fine warm weather somehow reminded me of Tokyo's cherry blossom viewing season.
From high windows, everyone watched the street below.
Showy women's hats stood out conspicuously.
The confetti occasionally thrown from windows gave exactly the feeling of scattering cherry petals.
Some people threw long paper streamers.
Groups wearing various costumes passed through.
There were many children.
Soon cavalry arrived at the procession's vanguard.
Their gleaming helmets trailed black hair - these were called cuirassiers, I was told.
After them came a band.
The roof of a halted tram overflowed with people vigorously throwing confetti.
Following the band came a strange float.
A chimney rose from a giant turtle's head while a railway official doll sat mounted on its back.
This contraption came swaying unsteadily from side to side.
This was said to critique the state-run Western Railway.

Then gradually came floats bearing each district’s queen.
The queens all smiled radiantly, blowing kisses to both sides of the street.
The crowd roared with cheers.
Some frowned under the intense sunlight as if feeling the heat.
Flags from various trade associations followed.
Next came a procession styled after ancient knights.
Floats symbolizing painting, music, poetry, and other arts appeared.
Red Cross relief teams carrying their banners mingled among them.
Much later arrived the “Empress of Empresses.”
Mademoiselle So-and-so sat enthroned atop her float’s highest tier, crowned in splendor.
Then came countless advertisement floats until finally cavalry closed the procession as escorts.
They said the parade would now advance toward Rue de Rivoli and the Champs-Élysées.
The boulevard seethed with such crowds that confetti occasionally struck me.
Taking refuge in a humble café, I found four or five men and women around a back table playing mandolins and singing.
Two years prior—on my first night stepping onto Western soil at a Genoa inn—I’d heard someone sing mandolin melodies late beneath my window; those tunes had struck me as either sentimentally profound or curiously vulgar, an ambiguous impression that today’s music precisely echoed.
Such melodies I never heard in Germany.
Returning to shake out my overcoat sent confetti scattering across every corner of the room.

Four or five days ago, I heard Gounod’s *Faust* at the opera. I was taken with Mephistopheles’ bass voice. The splendid stagecraft that felt so real, and the masterful use of lighting—these never fail to impress me wherever I go. The clattering signal they made by knocking on the wooden floor before the music began—different from Germany’s method—struck me as rather absurd. In the penultimate act comes a ballet. When I was back home, seeing reproductions of Degas’ pastel paintings of dancers in *Studio* or some such magazine, they had struck me as rather foolish and trivial things. But after later seeing actual ballet performances and then viewing Degas’ real paintings, I came to think that his works did after all capture with considerable truth a certain kind of scene, movement, color, and sensation.

I thought the actors’ singing had been rather better when I heard it last year in Vienna.
When I mentioned this to the German lodger, he puffed up his chest and declared, “Opera belongs solely to Germany!”
“Here they take Wagner’s works—a four-act piece, say—and hack them down to two acts at their whim,” he added indignantly.

(May 1911, Tokyo Asahi Shimbun)